Alfred Washington
by DA4TheFunOfIt
Summary: Basically a retelling of the legend of George Washington and the cherry tree Hetalia style. More of young America and England!
1. Chapter 1

America ran as fast as he could to the back yard! England was coming! England was coming! Normally, he would be rushing out to meet him, but not this time. This time, England was the last person he wanted to see. He looked around the backyard-trying to decide what to do. It was too late to jump the fence and head for the woods. They were too far away, and England was too close. Surly, England would see him. After a moment of carful strategic planning, America decided his only safe bet was to hide in the big apple tree in the back yard. With his axe still in hand, he began to work his way up the tree.

Of course, we all know America's brilliant plan of hiding in an apple tree was not the best idea he ever had. If America had put more thought into it, he would have realized that it was an especially futile hiding spot, considering it was his favorite hiding place. The apple tree would be the first place England would look for him. But then, it's always hard for a young boy to think logically when he knows he's about to get caught in an unpardonable crime against his guardian.

When America had gone as far as he could go, he sat against the tree and waited. He was breathing heavily. His heart was pounding. He was clutching his axe as if his hands were permanently stuck to it. What had he done? What had he done? England was going to kill him! He just knew it! When England got mad, his punishment was always swift and hard. America was terrified, but still, he knew he deserved it. He had broken a promise-AND destroyed a very precious possession in the process!

Earlier that week, England had come to visit America. America had been so excited! He was always glad to get a visit from his older brother. Usually, England would bring a surprise gift for America. After America had torn off the wrapping of this visit's gift, he was sure it was the best gift yet!

"An axe? No way! You're giving me my own axe?" America had shouted in amazement. England had smiled, obviously delighted that his gift was appreciated.

"You're getting older now. I've taught you how to use one over my last few visits. I decided it might be time for you to have one of your own. Besides, with winter coming up, I figured it would be useful to you."

"Thanks, Arthur!" America had jumped up to hug him, but England stopped him. The axe was still in America's hand.

"Be careful!" England had called out as he had stopped America from accidentally whacking his shoulder with the blade. "However, I am giving this to you on one condition," England had then continued sternly, "This is a tool-not a toy. You must be very careful with it. Use it only when you need it, and only on items for which an axe is designed," With that, England had rubbed his shoulder where the axe would have landed. Giving a reassuring smile at the young boy, he then continued, "By the way, _I_ am not one of those items." After the short lecture, America had held the axe carefully and respectfully.

"I'm sorry," he had said, "I'll be more careful."

"Is that a promise?"

"I promise! I'll be really careful, and I won't misuse it! You can trust me!

After that, America could hardly contain himself. He had been so honored to be trusted with such a huge reasonability! He had wanted to prove that he could handle it like an adult…but then, he was also itching to try it out. What boy wouldn't be?

"Can I chop up some firewood with it?"

"Now?"

"Please? I promise I'll be careful! And I'll only chop the fire wood!"

"Very well. Chop as much as you like, but only the firewood."

After being given permission, America had gone chop crazy. By the end of the week he had seemingly chopped enough fire wood to last him for ten winters! England was starting to wonder if giving him the axe was a good idea. In the end, England had decided to himself that as long as the boy was amused and was not harming anything, it was all alright. After all, boys would be boys.

Today, the day that the horrible incident occurred, England had gone to town to restock the cupboards on tea. America hated shopping, so he had elected to stay behind and "guard" the house with his new axe. Smiling a smile of pure affection, and reminding his little brother to be careful, England had left the house in America's charge.

Unfortunately, America had gotten bored. After pacing the entry way for an hour he had given up his post of "house guardian." There just wasn't a waiting list of enemies threatening to break down the door, and that made guarding it completely uninteresting. America had searched in vain for something else occupy his time, but nothing had interested him. He had not wanted to read, play with any of his toys, or work on his studies, and there had been nothing good to eat in the kitchen. All he had really wanted to do was use his axe, but all of the firewood was already chopped up. Suddenly, he had had an idea. In his mind, it had probably been the greatest idea he had ever had: He would chop down a tree!

Following his eureka moment, America had gone deep into the forests behind his house. Any other person would have gotten lost, but not him. America knew his land like the back of his hand. He thrived on being outdoors. It was where he had been born. He had known exactly where he was going that morning. Before long, he had reached his destination: the tallest, biggest, tree in the forest. He was not going to chop down just any old tree! America had started swinging with all his might. That tree was coming down! America had never chopped down a tree before. He had imagined it would be easy: just a few smacks with an axe, and your done, right? Plus, America was abnormally strong. He was even stronger than England at times. How could he not have the tree cut down and dragged home by teatime?

Sadly, after swinging the axe for what seemed like ages, even the young America had began to tire. Even with all his efforts, the tree had just barely been cut into by the time the boy had decided to stop. Cutting down a tree had been proving more difficult than America had imagined.

"Maybe I should start with a smaller tree…" he had said to himself when he had gotten his breath back. He had picked up his axe and started back towards his house, but before he left, he faced the tree one more time.

"Don't you dare think I'm giving up! I'll be back for you later!"

He had wanted to make sure the tree knew he was not defeated. He was just taking a break. America was a boy who never gave up once he set his mind to something. After walking a little ways towards the house, America had come upon the perfect tree. It had not been very thick, but it was tall. In no time at all, the boy had it tumbling to the ground.

"Yes! Victory!" he had yelled out for the whole world to hear. He had cut down his first tree!

It's amazing how good a simple thing like chopping down a tree can make a young boy feel. It makes him feel strong. It makes him feel mature. It makes him feel like he can do anything. Well, chopping down a tree had had the same effect on America…especially the "feel like he can do anything" part.

The rest of the way home for America had been spent chopping down trees. He could not resist bringing down any tree in sight that he had known he could conquer. With each felled tree, he had felt more powerful. And with each felled tree, he had also lost touch with a little bit more of reality. Soon, he had started only chopping down the really skinny ones. They had been fun because they could have been taken down with only one swing of his mighty axe. His imagination had begun to run away with him around that time. He had no longer been America cutting down trees. He was a fierce king from one of England's fairy tale books, taking on giants, one by one.

Once he had exited the forest, he had become too full of himself for his own good. He had begun bragging to himself about being the hero of the land and making speeches to the pretend townsfolk he had just saved. He had hopped over the back fence and strolled into the front yard (swinging his now magical, giant-fighting, axe every now and then for effect). Upon entering the front yard, he had spotted a new giant threat. There had been a cherry tree in the front yard; one just a few feet taller than him. It was a very special tree. But America had not seen it as a tree, that time. It was a giant. Boldly, America had approached it.

"You dare to come to my own home, foul beast?" (He had been trying his best to imitate England's funny accent) "You shall now feel the taste of my blade! Be gone!"

With that threat, America had begun to slash wildly at the giant. To be fair, he had never had any real intention of cutting the cherry tree down. There had still been a part of him that knew the tree was off limits, but the much bigger part of him that had been growing ever since his first tree-chopping victory was waving away all worries and telling him that there was no harm in _pretending_ to cut down the tree. And so, America had been there, in the front lawn, swinging his axe just beyond the tree's reach, when in all waving back and forth, there had come a time when he had misjudged the distance between the axe and the tree. Like the trees in the forest before it, the cherry tree had fallen with one quick slash!

As soon as America had felt the axe make contact with the tree, he knew he had gone too far. Helplessly, he had watched with horror as the tree flew through the air. Still in the swinging motion, himself, he had felt as if both he and the tree were moving in slow motion. When it had touched the ground, time had stopped, and America stood looking, dumbfounded, at the fallen tree. He had then dropped his axe in shock.

Unfortunately for him, he had not had much time to really take in the seriousness of his situation. The sound of a familiar whistling had reached his ears. As he had turned to look down the road, all of his "I can do anything" attitude shrank into nothingness. England had been walking down the road, and was almost home! As if it was a reflex, America had picked up the axe and raced into the back yard. He had not known what he was going to do, but he did know he did not want to face England.

And that is why the boy called America was sitting, shaking, high, up in an apple tree and away from his brother.

_What am I going to do?_

He kept thinking to himself. He never came up with an answer. All he could think about was that poor defenseless cherry tree: the tree that had bloomed such beautiful flowers in the spring, the tree from which he and England had picked cherries to make pies and other treats, the tree under which they had read books, the tree that America would sit by to remind him of England when he was away, the tree that they had planted together soon after England had adopted America as his younger brother. America remembered that day very well. He had been much younger. Not much more than a toddler. England had been teaching him about how things grow. England had helped him plant the small seed. They had watched it grow together over the years. England was very fond of it. Every time he came to visit, he would remark how America was shooting up just like the cherry tree.

And America had cut it down.

America felt sick. All he could do was sit in the apple tree and wait for his judgment, which would surly come. He didn't have to wait long. He heard England's quick footsteps and his sharp voice after only a few minutes:

"Alfred!"

* * *

Author's note: You can read this story and others on my Deviantart account (4TheFunOfIt) if you like.


	2. Chapter 2

America flinched at the sound of England calling his name. Other than that, he made no other movement. He stayed glued to his hiding spot in the apple tree. He was having one of those, "Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away," moments.

"Alfred!" came the voice again. "I know you are up there, so you might as well come down!"

Once again, America stood his ground. He closed his eyes. In disparity, he had now switched to "Maybe if I can't see him, he can't see me," mode.

"Alfred!" England called a third time. This time his voice had England's "I'm warning you," tone to it. This was it. America was feeling sicker by the minute. "This is your final chance. If you are not on the ground, in front of me, in the next sixty seconds, you shall go without dinner this evening."

That got America's attention. Anything but that! He hated going without a meal. Granted, England's cooking may not have been very good, but America wasn't very picky, and he was almost always hungry. He considered jumping out of the tree right then and there, but a thought stopped him. England had only mentioned dinner. Going without dinner was not the worst thing that could happen. After all, there was always-

"And no," England continued as if reading the boy's mind, "You shall not be allowed desert either."

America had been beaten. Going without dinner was a tragedy, but no desert was just cruel and unusual punishment. Besides, he had to face reality. He knew he couldn't hide in a tree forever. He might as well get his chastisement over with. He began the long climb down. Halfway down the tree, he became conscious of the sound of England's foot tapping the grass, impatiently. Suddenly he was having second thoughts. Maybe life in an apple tree didn't sound so bad, after all. He could always eat the apples. He liked apples. When there weren't any left in the tree, maybe he could learn to hibernate so he wouldn't need to eat any until they grew back. It's strange what goes through the mind of a boy who believes he is headed to his doom.

Before America knew it, he was on the ground. He was still hiding behind the tree. England was on the other side that faced the house. He was waiting for him. America glanced out into the open field and the woods past the fence. Maybe he could make a run for it. He could live alone in the wilderness! He had done that before. England interrupted his thoughts.

"Well…are you coming out, or not?"

America flinched again. He looked with longing at the open space in front of him one last time. Dutifully, he turned away. He knew deep inside that running away from his problems would only make things worse. Slowly, he peeked his head out from behind the tree. As soon as part of him surfaced, England barked at him to hurry it up. America quickly jumped out from behind the tree in obedience. He looked up. There stood England with his arms crossed; his face flushed in anger. He was holding the remains of the cherry tree in his hand.

In a moment of terror, America realized he still had the axe in his own hand! Reflexively, he hid the axe behind his back. In his mind, America knew hiding the axe now was a ridiculous thing to do. England had just seen him holding it. Still, America kept the axe behind him, and instead, averted his gaze downward. He could only stare at the ground in shame.

"I'm waiting," England finally said.

America gulped. He was supposed to be standing in front of England, right? He marched forward until he and England were about a foot or two apart. This whole time America was thinking of how stupid he was to still have the axe with him. He could have at least hidden the evidence! Why was it he never thought of things like that until it was too late? Once America was right in front of England, the older brother decided to begin the interrogation. He held out the tree, and spoke:

"It would seem as though someone has cut down our cherry tree," he began calmly. "Do you have any inkling as to who might have done this, Alfred?"

_Why doesn't England just say "I know it's you," and get it over with already?_

America thought.

_Why is he torturing me?_

"Answer me," England demanded.

America was already racking his brain for an answer. Instinct told America to make something up. To say that he had no idea who could have done such a horrible thing. Anything for the sake of survival! He looked up at England with an open mouth, ready to protest his innocence. But as soon as his eyes met England's, no words came out. Again, America hung his head. He couldn't do it. Suddenly, he was not only ashamed of himself for what he had done, but also for the way he was acting. He was being such a coward! This whole time he had been wanting to hide or run away in order to save his own neck. That was bad enough, but now he was going to stoop to lying? Even after he had been caught red-handed he was still going to try to cover it up? He was disgusted at himself. His grip began to tighten around the axe. He decided that if he was going to go to his doom, he was going to go (as England always put it) honorably. He would not be called a coward or a liar! He took a deep breath, and tried his best to speak out in a strong voice:

"Yes. I know who did it."

America knew he might have failed slightly in the "strong voice" department, but for now he was just relieved that he had a voice.

"Well then, do enlighten me."

America started to lose control of his breathing, but he forced himself to continue.

"I…I did it….I'm sorry….I cut it down with my axe."

After finally getting the words out, America produced the axe from behind his back and held it out to England. America still couldn't look at his brother. England took the axe away from America.

"You cut it down?"

America could only nod.

"With the axe that I gave you?"

Nod.

"The axe that you promised to use wisely?"

Nod again.

"Why would you do that?" England demanded.

"I-I don't know."

"There must have been some reason for you to have cut down this tree," England's temper was rising. "Now explain to me why you did this-and why to _this_ tree?"

This was going to be hard to explain.

"I…I didn't mean too…I swear. I was playing around, and I…accidentally cut it down," America's face was turning red from embarrassment as he remembered the idiotic way in which the tree had met its end. "I would never have cut it down on purpose. I'm really sorry."

England was fighting to control his temper.

"You disobeyed me."

"I know."

"I gave you strict orders to be extremely careful with this."

"I know."

"I told you it was not a toy, and yet you were "playing around" with it?"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't mend the tree, does it?"

With that, England threw the tree on the ground in rage. America couldn't take it anymore. He started to sniff and wipe at his eyes. England stared at the shrinking boy in front of him. He let out a frustrated sigh. Maybe he was being too hard on him. He was just a boy. England rubbed the back of his neck and began to ponder what to do about this. On the one hand, he had a young charge that had deliberately disobeyed his orders. In any other instance, an act like this would have to be met with cruel retribution. After all, England had to keep order in his colonies.

But on the other hand, he had a pitiful little boy who had made a mistake, admitted it, and seemed genuinely sorry. England was surprised in spite of his anger. America was so young, independent, and free-spirited, that England had been expecting him to run away or put up some sort of fight. Yet, the boy had done neither. He was standing before him totally submitted. He had bravely admitted his crime, and was awaiting judgment without even begging for mercy. That kind of bravery was rare, even for grown occupied countries. What was England supposed to do?

Meanwhile, America was starting to get nervous. He still could not look England in the eye, but he could see that England had not moved for a while. He couldn't tell what England was thinking. The suspense was worse than England's fury. When he could no longer bear the silence, he spoke up, and humbly made a suggestion about what he thought was supposed to come next.

"D-do you want me to get the lash?"

England's wondering mind came back to earth at the suggestion. "The lash?" He did have a leather strip hanging on the wall in America's house. He had meant it to be warning to discourage any insubordination, but he had never really had to _use_ it. He looked back at the tormented boy in front of him. Had he been expecting that this whole time? Now England was really unsure of himself. Should he use the lash now? Did he _have_ too? He was not unaccustomed to dealing harshly with insubordination, but could he really strike the boy he thought of as his little brother?

America, still not daring to look at England, decided the continued silence meant yes.

"I-I'll go get it. I'll be right back."

America made a mad dash for the house. He mainly just wanted to get away from the tense situation. He figured once his punishment was over, things might get back to normal. As he brushed past England, England instinctively turned, dropped the axe, and grabbed America by the shoulder.

"Wait!" he ordered.

He then turned America around to face him again. America closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and waited. He was sure he was going to get yelled at some more, or slapped, or something. As England looked down at the boy, England's face began to show his inner agony. He had still been torn over exactly what to do, but when he saw the small boy brace himself for the worst, his heart had melted. He knew he couldn't do it. With his own heart aching, England knelled down, wrapped his arms around the boy's shoulders, and hugged him. America opened his eyes wide in surprise.

"It's alright," England assured him. "You don't have to be afraid. I know you're sorry."

America was too stunned to do or say anything for a moment. Did he hear England right? Did he say it was alright? Did he say America didn't have to be afraid? What did that mean? Was England saying that he was seriously just going to forget the whole thing? That couldn't be it.

"But," America finally said when he got his voice back, "I broke my promise. And I cut down our cherry tree."

"I know," England stated calmly. "And I am quite disappointed in you for that," England then paused, backed away from the embrace and forced America to look him in the eye before he continued: "but I am also quite proud of you for telling the truth. At least you aren't hurt. That's worth more to me than an entire orchard of cherry trees."

America stared at England in disbelief. Slowly, it began to sink in that he was not going to get the punishment he knew he deserved. He was just going to be…forgiven. Suddenly, he felt himself tearing up again. Without warning, he tackled England and buried his face in England's chest. The force of America's sudden leap forward knocked England to the ground. With much difficulty, England tried to sit himself up and stay in an upright position. America kept his arms tightly wrapped around England and sobbed into him.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" He began calling out through his sobs.

England was doing well to just catch his breath. The boy had knocked the wind out of him, and it was especially hard to find his breath again when America was squeezing the life out of him. America may have looked like a normal boy, but England had to constantly remind himself of how strong he really was. It seemed as though he was getting stronger all the time.

"I know, I know," England finally managed to get out through his gasps. He tried patting the boy on the head to comfort him.

"But I cut down the cherry tree!"

Was it his imagination, or could England hear his back cracking?

"It was just a tree," England made a desperate attempt to comfort him again.

"But it was _our_ tree!" America protested. "I killed it, and I let you down!"

England looked over at the tree on the ground. He couldn't pretend the tree had not meant anything to him. At last he seemed to find the right response.

"Life will go on without it," England reassured him, "and I forgive you."

America calmed down a little bit but kept crying for a few more minutes. Again England was at a loss of how to handle the uncomfortable situation. Part of him felt as if he should tell the boy to man-up and stop his foolish crying, but when he looked at him, all he could think about was the tiny tot he had found in the wild. Finally, he gave up and just hugged the boy back.

"There, there, it's alright. It's alright."

He continued to hold America as his sobs died down. England sighed at his own weakness as he lay back on the grass. Being a big brother was hard.


	3. Chapter 3

Epilogue 1:

Later that evening, America and England sat down for what should have been a quiet meal together. However, England was having difficulty enjoying his food because of…let's just say of how well America was enjoying his. After taking care of America for so long, England had become used to America's noisy eating habit, but this meal it seemed like America had really turned up the volume. England observed it all in pure amazement as America (not too silently) wolfed down his food as if he had not eaten in weeks. Desperately, his hands grabbed at anything edible within his reach and stuffed it in his mouth. He was hardly bothering to chew. One would think that his small mouth would not be big enough to hold the all the nourishment he was forcing into it, but he somehow managed to stuff all the food in (Most of it anyway. The rest ended up all over and around him). In the course of all this action, America was filling the room with the sounds of his smacking, licking, a few "Mmmm's," and other satisfying noises that people make when they eat.

At first, England had tried to ignore it. He figured the boy must be unusually hungry and that he would slow down to a more modest pace after the first few bites. On the contrary, the situation had worsened as the meal progressed. It was not long before England realized that ignoring America would be impossible. He had looked up at America to scold him, but was so astonished at the sight of America devouring his meal, that he just stared at his little brother in disbelief for a few moments. Finally, England snapped out of it and attempted to get America's attention.

"Alfred?"

America was too engrossed in his dinner. England tried again, a little louder.

"_Alfred_?"

America still took no notice. England forcefully slammed his hand on the table.

"ALFRED!"

"Mm?" America looked up as if he had that forgotten there was someone else in the room.

"Slow down," England pleaded. "Can't you eat more…quietly?

"Bmm…um…hummgm…umngm…hrm-"

"How many times do I have to tell you not to talk with your mouth full?" England asked wearily.

America took a few moments to choke-down the large amount of food he had stored in his mouth. He struggled to chew and swallow it all as quickly as he could. England patiently waited. England didn't realize it, but America was actually channeling his stress into his eating. The entire day had really strained America. Well let's face it, fighting giants, committing a heinous crime, confessing to said crime, and nervously awaiting justice only to be unexpectedly pardoned and set free, would be enough to give anyone an appetite.

America was in such a hurry to get his food down, that he swallowed a little more at once than he should have. England stood up in alarm when it dawned on him that his little brother was choking. America grabbed his glass of water before England had a chance to rush to his side of the table. England watched carefully just in case the boy needed his assistance. America gulped down his whole glass to keep himself from coughing his clogged food back up, as well as to help wash the rest down. At last, America slammed the glass back on the table and took a few deep breaths before he spoke.

"But I'm hungry!"

England slid back into his chair with relief. America seemed to be alright. Sometimes England could swear that he could actually feel his hair turning gray when the boy did things like that.

"I'm hungry as well, but I'm not gobbling up my food like a wild animal," England pointed out.

America smiled.

"Bet you're not as hungry as me," he playfully challenged.

England rolled his eyes. He was not in a playful mood.

"Alfred, I don't think there is _anyone_ in all of creation who will _ever_ be as hungry as you," England answered scornfully. "However, that does not excuse you from your manners."

America's smile faded when he heard the sharp tone in England's voice. He could tell that he was about to get lectured. His spirit and his head lowered as England went on reprimanding him. He hadn't meant to go overboard. He just couldn't help himself. Suddenly, in the mist of the scolding, America's wandering eye noticed some very tasty looking rolls of bread on the center of the table. Instinct took over. He unconsciously tuned England's voice out. He stood on his chair and carefully stretched his arm out to grab a roll. England got angry when he noticed what America was doing.

"Don't reach across the table!" England stood again and slapped America's hand away from the bread basket.

"Ow!" America jerked his hand back in surprise. The slap hadn't really been that hard, but he rubbed his injured hand all the same.

"Get down from your chair and sit in it properly!" England ordered.

America stepped down on the floor and took his seat.

"Sorry," he said apologetically, as he scooted up to the table, but England wasn't finished.

"That's better. Now, sit up straight, and wipe your mouth."

America sat up and rubbed his mouth with his sleeve.

"With your _napkin_," England specified with a strong hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Oh, right," America brushed off his sleeve and proceeded to locate his napkin. After he had finished cleaning his messy mouth, England continued strictly instructing the boy.

"Well done. Now then, cut your meat with your knife, and use the correct fork-no, not that one-yes, that one. Eat _slowly_. No smacking. Don't slouch…" Eventually, England noticed that America was wistfully eyeing the bread-basket. "Also, if you want food on my side," he added, "ask me to pass it too you."

"Pass the rolls?" America immediately requested.

"Pass the rolls, what?"

America valiantly held back the urge to moan in irritation.

"_Please_ pass the rolls?" He tried again in his best polite voice. England was satisfied.

"Here you are," he said as he handed the bread to a grateful America. "And clean up all those crumbs you left on the table."

"Alright," America replied.

The meal resumed from that point. America sat still and dutifully willed himself to eat the way England had taught him. It was not easy. He had to carefully think about and plan every move he made. The process was almost torturous.

_Not too big…_

He mentally told himself as he measured a small bite to cut out of his meat.

_Don't scrape the plate,_

He thought as he cut cautiously to avoid making any unnecessary noise or damaging the plate.

_Slow…don't eat it too fast,_

He reminded himself as he delicately raised the meat to his mouth.

_Hold over the plate._

He leaned over just a bit to take a bite.

_Keep mouth closed,_

He thought as he chewed quietly and slowly.

_Sit up straight._

The thought came when he realized he was still leaning over the plate. He sat up again and began to carefully cut another bite in the same way. He was starting to get impatient. This was insane! All that good food was just staring him in the face, getting cold, and he had to take his time eating it! He was so hungry, that he wished he could just go back to tearing into his food like before. But he didn't.

_Don't fidget,_

His mind automatically pointed out when he realized he was kicking his feet back and forth. He firmly crossed his legs at the ankles to avoid doing it again.

_Don't put your elbows on the table!_

His brain practically screamed at him when he was about to rest an elbow on the table as he was leaning over to take another bite. He had caught himself just in time.

_Hold the utensils right,_

He remembered when he looked at his hands and noticed that he was clutching his fork and knife in his fists. He adjusted them.

_Chew slower._

It was all making his head hurt! So many rules to remember just for eating! Manners were a pain. Yet, somehow, despite the fact that America thought of all those rules as his mortal enemies, he still felt he could put up with using etiquette whenever England came over. It wasn't much to ask of him, it made England happy, and it was only for a little while, so why not endure them?

Meanwhile, England was concerned with the events of the day. He was criticizing himself for always being so lenient with America. He knew he had a soft spot for the boy and right now he hated himself for it. When America was younger it had been so easy to spoil him. England had always given America plenty of freedom. America loved him for it, but now England was starting to wonder if that had all been a good idea.

For the most part, America was well behaved. Any misconduct was usually an innocent mistake on the boy's part. He did have some bad habits that he couldn't seem to completely get over; habits which England had tried to understandingly coach out of him, (like his table manners) but it was rare that America deliberately disobeyed him. Today he had, but England had been unable to deliver a proper punishment. England was supposed to be the boy's superior. It should not have been such a difficult thing to do! The whole incident was forcing England to rethink the way he was raising the boy. Maybe he should be stricter. He knew eventually the boy might catch on to his weakness, and if that happened he might use it to purposefully take advantage of him. There was also the boy's strength to think about. America had amazing potential to become either a strong ally or (as England was starting to realize) a strong enemy. England couldn't afford to be so easy going when it came to crime and punishment anymore.

He was also trying to wrap himself around the idea that America was growing up. England couldn't think of him as an innocent toddler anymore. He certainly couldn't treat him like one, either. Perhaps he should be giving the boy more responsibility. Perhaps he should stop giving the boy so much freedom or take away some of his existing privileges. He was not quite sure, but he felt that some action like that might need to be taken in the future.

As England ate with his troubled thoughts, America was starting to become a little proud of himself for how well he was doing with his manners. So far, he had not made one mistake. He also did not have to think as much about everything he did as the time passed. He felt he was on a roll. He was now on his last bite of meat. In a celebratory move, he ate the last bite just a teensy bit faster than he had been eating.

_Mmmmmm!_

He was saying on the inside. He knew it was rude to say it out loud, but England couldn't keep him from thinking it! England had not burned the meat this time, so as far as England's cooking (and as far America's understanding of what was supposed to be "delicious") went, it had been fairly good. America looked up triumphantly at England. England's eyes were on his own meal. That was a disappointment. According to England's holy rules of etiquette, America now had to wait until he swallowed before he could speak and get England's attention.

As he chewed, his eyes drifted past England to the window behind him. America stopped chewing. He had to do a double take. The view outside the window had changed. Where was-oh…right…. For a while, America had forgotten about the cherry tree. Normally, he would have been able to see it from that window. Now the tree was gone…thanks to him. America didn't feel hungry anymore. He was feeling sick again. He didn't even want to swallow the meaty mush that was in his mouth. He couldn't spit it out, though. That would be a _major_ manners violation. Because he didn't know what else to do, and because he didn't feel like thinking of a better solution, he just sat there with his mouth still full and stared at nothing in particular on the table.

England was still absorbed in his own thoughts when he suddenly became aware of the deafening silence on America's side of the table. He looked up curiously to see what America was doing. England was taken aback to see the usually lively boy sitting so still and quiet. His plate was only half clean, yet the famished boy from a few minutes ago was now not even bothering to look at this food. He was just staring into nothing, looking very depressed. Now what had gotten into him?

"Alfred?"

America appeared startled out of his trance. He looked up at England.

"Is everything alright?"

The boy gave an obvious half-hearted smile and nodded. England eyed him suspiciously.

"You're not eating," England stated. "I thought you were hungry. Is there something wrong with the food?"

America shook his head. With a strangely labored expression, he swallowed the food that he had in his mouth.

"I'm fine! The food's great," he lied. Once he had remembered the tree, the meat had lost all taste.

England was still suspicious, but he decided to let it go for the moment.

"Alright," he said slowly, and then added: "I am aware that I told you to eat quietly, but it's alright to make a _little_ noise, you know."

America nodded, and England went back to his dinner. America remained silent and lethargic. England didn't like this. This was incredibly uncharacteristic of the boy. Being in the same room with him like this was unsettling.

"Arthur?" America finally spoke up, softly.

"Hm?"

America was avoiding looking directly at England once again as he spoke.

"You…you know I'm sorry right?"

"About what?"

"About…you know…the tree…."

England sighed heavily.

"Yes. I've only heard you say that at least a thousand times," he reminded America.

America shifted in his seat a little.

"Well…I am."

England sighed again.

"I know," he finally replied. "And for the thousandth-and-first time, it's all right. You needn't worry about it anymore," England's voice was kinder, but firm. How many times was England going to have to say that?

"Ok," America said. He picked up his fork again and tried to recommence his eating. England did the same. After a few minutes, the boy spoke again.

"So…when can I have my axe back?"

England stiffened.

"Excuse me?"

"My axe," America repeated. He was looking at England in the face now. He seemed to have made a swift recovery from his "depression."

In reality, America had not completely gone without consequences for his actions. England had taken the axe away and had forbidden him from using it again. America had understood, but had been disappointed all the same. He missed his faithful axe. Plus, he had just remembered that the first tree he had tried to cut down was still standing and waiting for him back in the forest. He was anxious to know when he would be allowed to use the axe again. If he never got it back, how was he supposed to keep the threat that he had made to the tree about finishing it off later? He didn't want the tree to think that he had given up.

"I know you said I can't use it anymore, but you're not keeping it forever right? I mean, I'll get it back someday, right? Like when I'm older?"

England felt his aggravation was getting dangerously high. Was that why the boy kept apologizing? Just so he could get his precious axe back?

"We'll see," England uttered crossly. Unfortunately, America didn't notice England's coldness. He kept going on about it.

"Cause, you know, it really wouldn't be fair if I never got it back."

"Alfred," England's voice held a warning, but still America didn't pick it up.

"That would be way too harsh. I could be, like an old man and still not be allowed  
to use an axe. How embarrassing would that be?"

"_Alfred_!" England practically shouted. That got the boy's attention. "I don't care to stay on this subject."

"But-"

"If I hear one more word about the axe," England interjected, "that prediction of yours just might come true. In fact, I don't want to hear another word from you about anything for the remainder of the meal. I simply want to eat in peace."

America shut his mouth. He shrunk back, slightly. England never spoke to him like that. The meal continued again. America only picked at the rest of his food. He ignored the rule about the elbows on the table. He put his left one on the table's edge and rested his cheek on his hand. With the fork in his right hand, he shifted the food on his plate around, gloomily. England ate quickly. Still in a bad mood, he wanted to get away from the boy's company before his conscience could start nagging him about the cruel way he had just spoken to his younger brother. At last, England wiped his mouth and stood up.

"Well, I have a long journey tomorrow, so I'll resign for the evening."

America watched him as he exited the room. He walked right past America without even looking at him.

"Clear the table for me, will you?" he said as he left.

"You're going to bed already?" America called after him.

"I'm tired," was all England said in reply. He did not look back at the boy.

America felt something jump in his chest. Something inside him wanted urgently to run to England and stop him. He knew something was wrong. England was upset with him, for some reason. Maybe he really _was_ still mad at him over the cherry tree. America didn't know for sure, but he knew he didn't want the day to end like this. He didn't want to go to bed knowing England was angry at him. He got up from his seat and rushed after England. He stopped at the dining room doorway, wanting to keep a safe distance from his departing brother just in case England lashed out at him again.

"What about a story?" America petitioned.

"Not tonight."

England disappeared around a corner. America ran to the corner.

"But we always read something before bed!" he called out as he ran.

"Alfred, I said I'm tired. You can go one night without a story."

England was at the stairs, now. He still didn't look at America as he spoke. Something in the boy began to panic.

"But it's your last night!" America pleaded as England began to climb the stairs. When England was halfway up, America worked up enough courage to dash to the foot of the stairs. He halted there, still afraid to get too close to England, and called up after his brother again, "I won't be able to hear another one for a long time!"

"Maybe we can read something in the morning," England replied, unmoved by America's pleas.

England reached the top of the stairs and walked out of sight. As America watched England move further away from him, he began to feel as if something inside of him was going to explode.

_Don't leave me alone like this! Don't do this do me!_

England had never been angry enough with America to turn his back on him in rejection like this. America was hurt and worried. What if England was still mad in the morning? He had to try to stop England one more time!

"It's not the same!" America burst out as he charged up the stairs. In one last desperate move, he decided to catch up to England and risk his fury. He hurried past England in the hallway and blocked his path. Then, to England's shock, the boy got down on his knees, bowed his head, held up folded hands to him, and literally begged.

"_Please_?" he sounded on the verge of tears. "Just one story? I'll do anything else you want for the rest of your stay, but please, just _one_ last story before you go?"

_Please don't be mad at me anymore!_

America was aching for England to, at the very least, just hug him and tell him good night the way he always did. He just wanted everything to go back to normal. He didn't like being on his brother's bad side. After he made his last stand, America waited to see how England would react. After a few sickening moments, he heard England speak. He sounded slightly annoyed, but not really angry.

"You don't have to be so dramatic."

America cautiously raised his head. His eyes met England's. England was staring blankly at him. It was as if he had been caught off guard. Indeed he had. England had not expected America would go to such great lengths just for a bedtime story. Part of him wanted to laugh because, in a way, the boy looked quite amusing. The part of him that was still upset wanted to push the boy out of his way so that he could continue to his room and get the sleep he needed. Then, there was that other part of him. That irritating part that England just couldn't seem to get rid of: the part that wanted to scoop up the boy in his arms and happily read him one-hundred stories. England pulled his eyes away from America's in embarrassment before he spoke again.

"Very well. One story."

America's insides jumped again-this time from hopeful anticipation.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Yes!" America joyfully jumped up. He felt like a weight had been lifted off of him. Things would get better, now. He knew it!

"I know just the one! Come on!"

With that, America grabbed England's hand and tugged him back down the stairs and into the library. England had to try not to trip as he was dragged along by his smaller brother. He looked down at the ecstatic boy. He was pondering what had just happened. How was this boy able to switch from despair to joy so easily? And all over a story? Sometimes it seemed the simplest things made America happy. Then, there was always the possibility that the boy was feigning grief and sorrow just to get what he wanted…. He remembered what America had said about the axe at the table…. England tried to shake the doubts out of his mind. He didn't really want to believe America was doing that. He decided that if he was, he was an _exceptional_ actor. At any rate, he could worry about it later. He tried to concentrate on what was happening now.

"Aren't you getting a little old for bedtime stories?" England asked as they entered the library. "If you want one so badly why don't you read it yourself?"

"Why would I do that when you can read it for me?" America answered as he began to scan the bookshelf.

_What am I, your servant?_

Was England's immediate thought. He was about to indignantly say something to that effect, when America went on:

"Reading it myself would be so _boring_!" at that, America glanced up at England briefly with a face full of admiration. "I mean, nobody can read books out loud like you do."

England's offended attitude deflated. He realized that America was praising him. Gradually, a small smile began to form on England's face as he affectionately watched his younger brother search for the right book. God, that child could look so adorable!

"I appreciate the complement," he said softly. Then he straightened up and tried to sound more keyed up about reading a story. "Right then, have you found the one you want yet?"

"Yeah! This one's perfect!"

America held his selection up to England. England's smile vanished at the sight of it. The title read: _The Rose Tree_. A red flag went up in England's head. The story was an old English folk tale-an awfully _gruesome_ one.

"Out of the question," England quickly and flatly stated. America looked surprised.

"What? Why?" He demanded.

"That will only give you nightmares," England replied as he pushed the book back. "Pick something else."

"But I don't want anything else," America said as he stubbornly held the book back to England.

"Pick something else anyway," England firmly insisted as he pushed the book away once more. England wasn't going to budge.

"Come on!" America shoved the book back at England. "You haven't read me a good ghost story in forever!" England put both hands on the book and strained to keep it away from him.

"For good reason!" he said through gritted teeth. "You know what these stories do to you!"

"I won't get scared this time," America claimed bravely. He was still trying to push the book at England.

"That's what you said last time," England returned in an unimpressed voice.

America put on a determined face.

"I mean it this time!"

"You said that last time as well," England replied, still unmoved.

"Well…" America was running out of convincing arguments. "That was a long time ago. I can handle it now."

"You are just going to end up crying and begging to sleep with me."

Without warning, America stopped trying to force England to take the book. He jerked the book away so fast that England stumbled forward a bit. America hugged the book as if to protect it.

"I will NOT!" he rebutted, obviously insulted.

"Oh, really?" England crossed his arms and frowned down at the boy.

"Yes! _Really_!"

There was a pause as the brothers had a stare-down. England was the first to break the silence.

"If I read it to you, will you abide by everything you just said?"

America gave a confident nod.

"You won't make a fuss about going to bed after it's over?"

Head shake.

"You'll stay in your own room and not run screaming into mine in the middle of the night?"

America vigorously nodded once more as he bargained with England, "Just this one story. I promise. I won't get scared. I'll go straight to bed right after it's done, and you won't see me again until breakfast time," He was so serious that he probably would have saluted and added "Scout's honor," if the phrase had been invented then.

England didn't really mind sleeping with America. They had slept together many times before, but recently it had been getting more difficult for England. For one thing, America moved around a lot in his sleep. He had a tendency stretch himself out all over the bed and whoever else was in it. He wasn't a small child anymore, so trying to sleep with America unconsciously taking up the whole bed was becoming a challenge. A frightened America was even worse. If England was lucky enough to get to sleep despite a petrified America trying to keep him awake, England would only be woken up later by the sound of America shrieking over a nightmare. Because of all this, England tried to avoid sleeping with the boy if he could. Besides, the boy really needed to learn to sleep in his own bed.

England sighed and reluctantly held out his hand. America excitedly gave him the book and dove on the couch. Dragging his feet, England followed. After England had seated himself on the couch, America grabbed a cushion and sat next to his brother, eagerly awaiting the thrilling story. England was not as thrilled. Hesitantly, he opened the book and began:

"There was once upon a time a good man who had two children: a girl by a first wife, and a boy by the second."

The story started innocently enough. It sounded deceivingly like a normal child's fairy tale. America sat quietly as the story went on about how the second wife, the "evil stepmother," hated the daughter of her husband's first wife. Nothing unusual or particularly interesting about that. Outside, England could hear a storm starting up.

_Brilliant._

He thought as he kept reading.

_Now, I'll never get him to sleep._

England continued to read the story to a part in which the girl was laying on her stepmother's lap. The stepmother was combing her stepdaughter's hair. As she combed, the stepmother was consumed with even more hate for the beauty of the little girl's golden hair. England read the stepmother's next lines in a soothing voice:

"I cannot part your hair on my knee, fetch a billet of wood."

England felt America straighten a little, as if his interest had been peeked slightly. England read on. After the girl brought her stepmother the wood, the stepmother made another request. England did the stepmother's soothing voice again, this time with a slight mocking tone:

"I cannot part your hair with a comb, fetch me an axe."

England heard America take in a quick breath. He also noticed he was hugging the cushion tighter. Outside, England overheard the storm getting closer. Trying to ignore it, he went on with the story. Of course, the girl in the story was very trusting and obedient. After she fetched the axe for her mother figure, the stepmother spoke again. This time, England added a hint of malice to the soothing voice:

"Now, lay your head down on the billet whilst I part your hair."

England could feel America stiffen, as if he was bracing for something. England pressed on. There was no turning back now.

"Well! She laid down her little golden head without fear;" England paused. "and WHIST!"

England felt America's body jump. The boy hugged the pillow he held with all his might.

"Down came the axe and her head was off," England paused again to take a peek at America. He was frozen stiff and staring wide eyed at the book.

"Are you alright?" England asked.

"I'm fine. Keep reading." America's response was quick and expressionless.

England felt exasperated. Fine then! If America insisted on torturing himself, who was England to stop him? England found his place and went on:

"So the mother wiped the axe and laughed." The corners of England's mouth turned up a little at this part. Maybe one good thing could come of this. If nothing else, maybe this would give America a fear of axes.

"Then she took the heart and liver of the little girl, and she stewed them and brought them into the house for supper."

America made a noise that sounded like a muffled gag. Before England could read further, a low rumble of thunder interrupted him. America flinched again at the unexpected noise. Soon after that, rain was pelting the window behind them. As the storm continued, so did the story. England read on about how the girl's father ate her organs unknowingly. Later, her body was buried under a rose tree. When spring came, the little girl's ghost returned for revenge in the form of a small, white bird.

England stole another glance at America around this time to see how he was handling all this. America was breathing quietly, but heavily. He was still clutching the cushion. England could see his hands trembling. Beads of sweat had started to form on his face. Yet, he was continuing to stare at the book as if his life depended on it. His jaw was set. His eyes were wide, but focused, and his brow was low as if he was in deep concentration. He looked as if he was determined to make it through the story.

By now, England had given up the idea of trying to get America to sleep after this. The boy was obviously petrified. England didn't understand why America was forcing himself to listen to these kinds of stories. Honestly! The boy was like an insect drawn to a flame when it came to things like this. Still, in spite of himself, England found that he was not really upset about this situation anymore. On the contrary, he found himself getting into it a little. This was the kind of opportunity that most older siblings can't resist. One glance at America's determination and England became a little determined, himself. He figured since he was going to be up all night anyway, why not turn it up a notch and have some fun?

When he came to a part in the story in which the ghost-bird sang a song, England sang it in the creepiest voice he could muster:

_"My wicked mother slew me,  
My dear father ate me,  
My little brother whom I love  
Sits below, and I sing above_

Stick…"

England paused for effect, then continued softer:

_"Stock…"_

Another pause. England slowly moved closer to America.

_"Stone…"_

England gave one more short pause before whispering in the boy's ear:

_"Dead."_

As luck would have it, a flash of lightning filled the room and a large burst of thunder sounded the moment the last word left England's mouth. That did it. America let out a scream and hid his face in his cushion. England had to stifle a laugh. America remained curled up next to England as he screamed a few more times in his pillow. England grinned down at him. He felt a mix of amusement and pity. He put his hand on the boy's back and spoke gently.

"Why do you do this to yourself?"

"I don't know!" came the muffled voice from the cushion. "I can't help it!"

England covered his mouth and tried to suppress his sudden urge to burst out laughing.

"Stop laughing!" he heard America cry out through the pillow.

"I'm not…laugh…ing." England couldn't hide his rising giggles.

"Yes you are!"

England somehow managed to compose himself.

"No, I'm not."

America bolted up from England's lap. His face was pink with embarrassment and childish anger.

"It's your fault!" he accused. "You _tried_ to scare me!"

"I did no such thing," England looked away from America. He knew if he looked right at him he would surly loose it.

"You did too!"

"You are the one who said I was such a good story teller," England was doing his best not to smile as he calmly explained the accusations away. "I was merely trying to do justice to the story. I wouldn't want to disappoint my audience, now would I?"

England felt America's eyes boring into him. He still didn't look back at the scrutinizing boy. Finally, he felt America shift back in his seat. The boy scooted away from England a bit. He turned his back to England, pulled his legs up on the couch, and hugged his pillow.

"Liar," he said in a half grudging, half pouting, voice. "Don't do that again."

"Shall I stop reading?" England offered.

America swung himself around and put his hand in the book just as England was about to close it.

"No! I have to find out what happens now, or I'll go crazy!"

"As you wish," England said with a sigh.

The story continued from that point with little interruption. England did not try to frighten America again, and America (aside from some cringing and nervous squeals that he tried to stifle in his cushion) bore the rest of the horrific story admirably. The ghost-bird flew around town singing its gory, yet strangely mesmerizing, song. As it went along, it collected items which it would need for its vengeance. The story ended with the haunting bird using its gathered items to trick the stepmother into coming outside the house. The bird dropped a large millstone on the wicked women as soon as she appeared outside. And that was it. No magic spell to bring the slain girl back to life. No prince to marry her. No happy reunion with her family. Just a crushed stepmother and a lost soul of a little girl trapped in a bird's body for all eternity.

"…and so she died," England finished the book and promptly shut it.

He looked down at America. America didn't budge. Both he and England knew that he had doomed himself. He had given his word that he would go right to bed after that one story. He would have to face his dark room alone with the thoughts of that terrible story still fresh in his mind. No doubt, he would be cowering in bed all night while that bird's song would be ringing in his ears. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't ask permission to sleep with England or come into England's room later. With that foolish promise, America had sentenced himself to a night of indescribable horrors. He eyed the dark stairs outside the library as if he was gathering up the courage to get off the couch and climb them. He looked like he might throw-up.

"That seems a rather melancholy way to end our evening," England observed out loud. "Why don't you pick out one last story?"

America slowly looked up at England.

"A more cheerful one this time?" England included with a smile.

America let his breath escape out of him in relief. He gave England a weak smile as a token of thanks for rescuing him. Then he kind of wobbled back to the bookshelf to find a new story. One story turned into two. Two turned into three. Before long the brothers had lost track of how many stories they had read. They wound up reading late into the night, and it wasn't even all America's fault. England was the main culprit who kept suggesting they read more. He did it even after he was sure that America had forgotten the first story. In truth, England enjoyed reading out loud as much as America enjoyed listening to him read, but it was more than just his own amusement that kept him going. Perhaps the reality that he would have to return to Europe the next morning had finally sunk in. England knew he would not get a chance to do this again for quite a while. He was getting busier these days and it took so long to travel to the colonies. Those thoughts of the impending separation weighing on both brothers allowed them to form a silent understanding between each other. Neither of them mentioned what would happen in the morning. They both knew. With each "The End," something inside both of them said:

_Not yet. Just one more._

At some point, America began to fade in and out. His head would slowly nod down until the pain in his neck made him wake up with a start. He tried so hard to stay awake, but he was losing to his fatigue. He leaned on England and tried resting his head on his brother's arm.

England was reading out of a collection of fairy tales that France had published long ago. It had been published in English fairly recently. Even England had to admit that the French stories were pretty good (though he would never admit it to France even if he was threatened with his life). He was just finishing up the story of _The Master Cat; or Puss in Boots_:

"In turn, the cat became a great lord and never again ran after mice, except for his amusement."

Once the story was finished, England realized that his arm had fallen asleep. He looked over to see America leaning on it.

"Alfred, could you move over a little? You're getting heavy." When England gently nudged the boy as he spoke, America slid over and flopped onto England's lap like a rag doll. "Alfred?" That's when England saw that his arm was not the only thing that had fallen asleep. America was knocked out-cold. He dozed comfortably on England's lap while still hugging the pillow.

England felt a little disappointment as he watched his sleeping brother. He sighed and closed the book. He supposed that it would have to have ended eventually, anyway. He tossed the book on the floor. It joined the other piles of books that had accumulated over the last few hours. He gazed down at America again and brushed the boy's ragged hair off of his face. He really should carry him to bed.

England stretched and tried to get the blood flowing back in his arm. He yawned and leaned back on the couch. He rested the back of his head on the wall that the couch was against. That felt nice. He closed his eyes. Maybe he could rest there for just a bit before taking the boy upstairs….

* * *

Authors note: I like the story as it is, but I couldn't get this out of my head, so I wrote an epilogue. One part to go!


	4. Chapter 4

Epilogue 2

When the sun's light shone into the library the next morning, it fell on the two brothers who were still sleeping on the couch. At some point during the night, they had shifted positions. England had fallen over and was now laying stretched out on the couch as if it was a bed. America was still on top of him, but he had moved around so much in his sleep, that he had somehow managed to turn himself upside-down. His legs were propped up and resting on the couch's back, his back was stretched across England's legs, and his head and shoulders were dangling off the edge of the couch. One of America's hands was on his stomach. His other arm was hanging off the couch as well. At the end of it, his hand still clutched the pillow with which he had fallen asleep.

As uncomfortable as the position looked, America was having no trouble sleeping like that. His mouth hung wide open as he slept, completely unaware that he was gradually slipping downward. As he lay there, he suddenly jerked his right arm out to the side in his sleep. In that sweeping motion, the pillow he was holding bumped against a pile of books on the floor, knocking them down. The noise the books made as they fell caused America to jolt awake. His eyes opened to a bright, fuzzy, upside-down room. The boy only had about three seconds to gaze at his surroundings in confusion.

"Wha…? Whoa-!"

BUMP!

Before he could finish his thought, he slid off the couch completely. His head smashed against the hard wood floor. The rest of his body had flailed at the surprise of the sudden drop and caused him to do a kind of back flip off the couch and onto the floor.

"Ow."

He stated as he sat up on the floor and rubbed his head. What a way to wake up. Then he rubbed at his eyes and tried to focus on the room. His was still not fully awake, and his head was slightly dizzy from being upside-down for so long.

"What am I doing in here?" he sleepily asked himself once he realized he was in the library.

His groggy mind was blank. He didn't even know what day or what time it was. He glanced over at all the books on the floor, then at England still sleeping on the couch, and then out the window at the sunlight.

"Oh yeah," he yawned. "Guess we never went to bed."

He wiped at something sticky on the side of his face (it was actually drool that had slid down the side of his head while he had been sleeping overturned). He stood up and stretched and yawned again. He gave a drowsy look at England sleeping peacefully on the couch. America was still pretty tired, himself. He could have easily gone back to sleep for little while longer, but why go back to sleep when he was already awake? Kids just don't understand why anyone would want to go back to bed if they are awake and the sun is up. There was plenty of time for sleeping later. In America's childish mind, too much time was already reserved for sleeping.

"Arthur?" America said in the middle of another yawn.

England kept sleeping.

"Arthur?" the boy tried again. He began to half-heartedly shake his brother in a sleepy attempt to arouse him. "Arthur? Come on," he whined in a pitiful lethargic tone. "It's morning. I'm hungry. Arthur?"

England just rolled over.

America stopped trying to wake his older brother and just stared at him. That was weird. England usually woke up pretty quickly. America looked over at a clock in the room. Almost seven. It wasn't that early. He was about to go back to waking up England, but then he remembered how late they had been up the night before and why. England was normally an early riser, but that was only because he went to bed early as well. America sadly backed away from England. He decided his bother probably needed the sleep. Besides, once he was awake he would only spend most of the morning preparing to leave, and America did not want to think about that.

America shuffled sleepily into the kitchen. He would have to fend for himself until England made him a real breakfast. Might as well get used to fixing all of his own meals again, anyway. He saw the water pump in front of him and suddenly realized how dry his mouth was. He walked over to the large sink and started pumping out some water. He eagerly drank the cool water as it came out. He put his entire head under the faucet and rubbed the water in his face. His hair was all matted and sticking up, so he rinsed it out as well. After he was finished, he shook his head over the sink like a wet dog. Now he felt refreshed and truly awake. He threw his head back and happily stretched one last time. When he opened his eyes, he spotted the object of his desire. On the very top of a shelf, there sat a familiar and inviting-looking round jar.

"Hello breakfast," America cheerfully greeted the object.

After taking a quick peek back into the library to make sure England was still asleep, he quietly pushed the kitchen table next to the shelf. He stood on the table and reached for the jar. The tips of his fingers barley touched it. Adjusting to the situation, he stood as high as he could on his tip-toes and carefully nudged the jar closer to him with his fingers. He couldn't wait till he was tall enough to reach it on his own!

At last, he achieved his goal. He hugged the large jar with both hands as he hopped off the table. Excitedly, he took the lid off the jar, reached his greedy hand in, and pulled out one of England's large biscuits. He stuffed it in his mouth without any hesitation. So good! He reached in and grabbed another one. England had told him before that those biscuits were only for snacks, but America figured that eating them now would be ok just this once. It was only to hold him until breakfast. England would not want him to starve, right?

The boy wrapped one arm around the jar and began aimlessly walking through the house while he enjoyed his early morning treat. The biscuits were made with blackberries, nuts, and lots of sugar. He wandered into the dining room and paused when he saw the table.

"Oops."

The table still held the leftovers from the night before. America and England had both forgotten all about clearing the table. America sighed and placed the jar on the table. He figured he'd better take care of the cluttered table before England woke up. England didn't like anything to be out of order. Before he started, he shoved the British cookie that he was holding halfway in his mouth. That way, he could still munch slowly on his pre-breakfast while his hands could be free clean.

He started at his own side of the table. He stacked his plates, silverware, and his cup, and then he worked his way to his brother's side of the table. He was in a pretty good mood as he added England's dishes to his own. Having something in his stomach was giving him more energy, and the sun was shining brightly on him while he worked. He could hear birds outside the window, as well. It was a perfect morning. He had almost forgotten that England was going to be leaving him soon.

Once all the dishes were stacked, he took a moment to glance out the window and admire the beautiful morning. That was a mistake. What had happened the night before repeated itself when it became painfully obvious to the guilty boy that a certain tree in the front lawn was missing. America's good mood turned to shame. The sweet biscuit turned sour. America didn't even notice when the half that he had not eaten fell from his mouth.

America lost all motivation to do anything, so he put the stack of dishes back on the table. He sat in a chair and buried his head in his arms on the table in front of him. For the first time on any morning in his whole life, he actually felt like crawling into bed and going back to sleep. Maybe he would wake up and find out that it had all been a dream.

The boy moaned to himself as he sat slumped on the table. Was he going to feel this way _every_ time he noticed that the tree was gone? He was pretty sure that England had forgiven him, but that didn't stop him from feeling guilty. And yeah, it was only a tree, but it had been a special tree. Now that it was gone, that would mean no more picking cherries from it with England. No more helping England make tasty cherry-filled treats. No more playing with England under the shade of the tree. And no more countless other things that involved that tree. America felt even worse when he considered something else: Would England feel bad every time he saw the empty yard, too?

America became vaguely aware that something was stuck between his teeth. He didn't really care at the moment, but he still instinctively sucked on it and tried to dislodge it with his tongue as he wallowed in his self pity. His mind wandered back to years before when he and England had planted it. England had thought it would be a fun way to teach his brother about how plants grew. After England had shown him how to plant and water it, toddler America had crouched down and watched intently to see what would happen. He had been so disappointed when England had then told him with much amusement that it would take a long time for the tree to grow.

_"But I want some cherries now!"_

_"You will get some. You simply have to be patient. Good things come to those who wait."_

Every day after that, the curious boy had kept a faithful eye on the spot where the tree had been planted. After days of nothing, America had started to think that they had planted a defective seed. Either that, or England had been pulling his leg when he had told him that they could make a tree grow. Finally, the day had come when America went outside for the daily inspection and found something poking out of the ground. Anyone would have thought the boy had just witnessed something that had defied the laws of physics. He had rushed inside and impatiently tugged England back out with him so he could share the incredible miracle with him. He had hopped up and down with joy and pointed to his discovery in the dirt. England had laughed at him for being so ecstatic over a tiny plant sticking up out of the ground, but the toddler had not cared. He had kept hopping and dancing around the yard to celebrate the event. It had taken a very long time for the young child who had still been so new to the world to get over his excitement and amazement that the tree was actually growing.

As the years had gone by, England had taught America how to care for the tree. The two had spent a lot of time together with that tree. Unfortunately, when America had gotten old enough to be left on his own for longer periods of time, England had had to begin the difficult task of weaning the boy off of his care. England could not stay in the colonies forever. He was needed in Europe. That was when England had returned to his own home with promises to visit America often.

America always felt lonely whenever England left, but one of the things that had reminded him of England had been the cherry tree. If America ever missed England, he could always look at the tree and remember that if he was patient, his brother would come back again. Now the tree was gone and America could not even do _that_ anymore!

America was not going to stand for this! There had to be _something_ he could do to fix everything! He lifted his head up and tried to think of something. Suddenly, the thing in his mouth that he had been absentmindedly fiddling with popped out of his teeth. He spit the minor annoyance on to the table in front of him where he could see it. A seed. Probably from one of the blackberries in the cookies he had eaten. America continued to stare at the seed as his mind went back to wondering about what he should do to make his situation better. All of a sudden, an idea struck the boy as he studied the tiny seed. He jumped up from his chair. Yeah…that might work. He ran back to the library to check on England. Still asleep. Good. America quickly, but quietly, raced out the front door. He was a genius! But he had to move fast. He wanted his plan to be a surprise.

England awoke a few hours later. Like America, he had also been confused to find that he was sleeping on the couch. Even after the events of the previous night came back to him, he had still felt out of place. He could have sworn that he had taken America to his room and then gone to bed himself. Had all that been a dream? England took a look around the room. Where was America?

"Alfred? Alfred? Are you around?"

He heard no answer. England stood and stretched. He was about to search for his missing brother, when he noticed the clock. It was almost nine forty-five. England took a closer look at the small clock to make sure he had seen it right. Was it really that late? England rapidly turned to exit the library. Perfect. Just perfect. Now he was going to be late for the ship home.

However, England was unable concentrate on his hasty plans for departure because he had caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye in the next room. He halted and looked back into the open dining room where he saw the dishes from the last night's supper still sitting on the table. Automatically, he walked into the room and began to collect them.

"Alfred!" England called out as he worked. Maybe he could get the boy to do the chore so he could get ready to leave. "Alfred! Where are you?"

Still no answer.

_Honestly, the boy could have at least cleared the table before he disappeared!_

He silently grumbled to himself as he gathered the platters and the bread basket in the middle of the table. He didn't have time for this! Why hadn't America woken him up? The boy always woke England up in the mornings. In reality, there was no need to rush. It was not like the ship was going to leave without England. It was his ship after all. All the same, England was a very punctual person. He hated to be late for anything.

England went to gather his own dishes and noticed the stack that America had left sitting at the end of the table. It appeared as if someone had started cleaning up, but had stopped for some reason. England shrugged as he added the stack to his. America didn't always have the best attention span, but at least he tried. Then England's eyes feel on his open biscuit jar sitting on the table as well. He grunted with disapproval.

_Seems as though he's been into the biscuits._

England jerked up the jar and added it to everything else. He carefully carried it all to the kitchen. When he came to the doorway of the kitchen, he almost dropped everything he was carrying. When he got a better grip on his load, he stared in horror at what had once been the kitchen.

It was a complete disaster.

Everything was coated in mud. The floor, the table, the shelves, the cupboards, it was even on the wall in some places. Not only that, but the place was ransacked. All the cupboards were open. Random items from the selves and cupboards had been removed and placed on the table which was still pushed against a shelf. The things that had been left in the cupboards and on the selves looked as if they had been shifted around. In the midst of observing the ciaos, England's shock turned to anger as his eyes picked out small mud prints left everywhere by boy-sized hands and bare boy-sized feet.

"ALFRED!" England's voice shook the house.

The angered nation had to place his pile of dishes at the entrance of the kitchen. He dared not enter the room yet. He stomped upstairs and began his hunt for his younger brother. When he could not find the boy on the second floor, he stomped back down the stairs to search the rest of the house, all the while cursing the boy under his breath.

"That _tears_ it! I'm going to wallop that boy! I'm going to hang him! I'm going to string him up by his feet and chain him to the house so that he will never be able to wander off again!"

England's empty threats uttered in the heat of his anger made him feel better, but they did nothing to aid him in locating America. The downstairs search was just as unsuccessful as the upstairs. At a loss for what to do next, England ended up back in the dining room.

"Where the devil is that boy?"

England reasoned that if America was not in the house, he was probably somewhere outside. Perhaps he was hiding in the apple tree again. England took a look out the window. He did not expect to see America sitting out in the yard in plain sight, but there he was. The boy was sitting on the lawn with his back turned to England. England had no clue what America was doing, but he would soon find out. He marched directly to the front door. While walking through the hallway to the door, England inwardly smacked himself for not having noticed the obvious muddy footprints leading from the kitchen to the door earlier. If he had not been so blinded by his rage upon seeing the sullied kitchen, he might have seen and followed those instead of wasting his time combing an empty house. Becoming aware of his momentary lack of common sense made England angrier. He threw open the door, prepared to give America a piece of his mind and maybe more.

"Alfred!" England spat. "What on earth are you-GAH?"

England jumped back in surprise when America turned around and stood up. The boy's entire front side was covered in dirt and mud. The boy's white teeth emerged under all the filth as America grinned broadly.

"Hey, Arthur!"

"What happened here?" was all England could say.

"I fixed the tree!" America proudly announced.

"You what?"

"I fixed it!" he repeated. "Well, sort of. I planted a new one with a seed from one of the old one's cherries, so it's not the same tree, but it's close, right? It's like the old tree's kid or something." Behind America, where the cherry tree used to stand, England could see small mound of dirt. There was also a bucket and a shovel.

England found that he could not do much more than stare at America. His mind tried to take in what he was looking at. He was flabbergasted. He couldn't decide how he was supposed to respond. He had come out there with the intention of confronting America for destroying the kitchen, but that was forgotten as he was now pondering how the boy could have managed to get himself into such a state. He wanted to ask America about that, but what the boy was telling him started to sink in and he became curious about something else.

"Th-the cherry tree didn't have any fruit left," England finally managed, weakly. "Where did you get the cherry?"

"From the kitchen," America returned, happily.

"Of course."

England's mind flashed back to the muddy kitchen. That explained a lot.

"Yeah, we actually had _one_ left, can you believe it?" America enthusiastically went on. "Talk about lucky."

England looked and his brother again. Why had he not expected America to look this way after seeing the kitchen? The question of how he had become like this was still a mystery.

"I still don't understand how you managed to get so filthy."

America looked down at himself, and then back at England as if he had not seen anything unusual.

"Like I said, I planted a new tree. Don't people usually get dirty when they plant things?"

"Not like THIS!" England exploded. "Look at yourself! You're covered in mud, you have leafs in your hair, your shoes are missing, and…what happened to your arm?"

America looked where England was gesturing. On his right arm there was a long, red cut. England was already kneeling on the ground beside him for a closer look. England wanted to take the arm in his hands and examine it, but the mud made him hesitate. After getting the best view of it that he could from a safe distance, he was relieved to see that the cut was not deep. It was more of a scratch on the top of the skin. It looked worse than it was because it was a little swollen and red. Once he was certain the arm did not need immediate attention, England looked back at America's face and waited for an explanation. America was still staring at his arm in confused fascination. His head was cocked to the side as if his was trying to translate a difficult code written on his arm.

"I don't really know," the boy's words came out slowly at last.

"You don't know?" England questioned.

"I scratched it, I guess," America finally decided.

"On what?" England pressed.

"Mm-mn," America shrugged as he hummed his _I don't know_. "Something sharp?" he offered in suggestion.

England's head dropped in aggravation. He rubbed his temples and stood up. He decided to start from the beginning again.

"How exactly did you go about planting this seed?" he asked with tension in his voice.

"Well…" the boy enthusiastically began. He looked as if it would be his greatest pleasure to recount his awesome adventure for an audience. "First I had to dig up the old tree's stump and roots. That probably got me a little dirty, I guess, but you would not _believe_ how big the tree's roots were. I had to dig a HUGE hole to get it all out," here he spread his arms wide to illustrate the hole. "And it was just a little tree!" England noticed as America held out his hands that a few blisters were starting to form on the boys palms. Were those from digging and pulling up the roots? "Then I had to refill the hole with some good soil," America went on. "I had to find just the right dirt, so I took the bucket and went looking for some," at this point, he pointed to an empty (also mud-covered) bucket lying on the ground. "That took a lot longer than I thought it would." He looked a little sheepish as he carefully worded his next sentence: "Because…I guess I got a little…sidetracked."

"_Croak_"

America and England froze. England felt a growing uneasy feeling. He cautiously peered down in the direction the sound had come from. He saw one of America's wet and muddy socks on the ground. The sock was engorged with a huge lump.

"What was that, dare I ask?" England spoke as if he already knew he wasn't going to like the answer.

America grinned.

"The sidetrack!"

America bent down and quickly produced from his sock the ugliest, fattest, squishy-est looking blob of green that England had ever seen in his life.

"Aah!" England took a few steps back in disgust as America held the "sidetrack" out to him.

"Isn't he great? (Or she, I'm not sure which) But isn't it the biggest frog you've ever seen?"

The frog's bulging eyes slowly opened and looked at England. England fought his gagging reflex. It was not like it was anything new for America to bring home small creatures that he had caught in the wild, but this frog (if that was what it really was) was by far the most grotesque. The warty thing looked like it had swallowed a cat. It was practically as big as America's head! It just hung lazily in America's hands as if it did not really care that it was a prisoner. It had long skinny limbs that hung down, and a wide face that seemed to recede slightly into the rest of its body.

"I found it in a mud pit while I was looking for some good planting dirt, and I just had to catch it!"

England looked at the stretched sock on the ground and shivered.

"You kept it…in your sock?"

"I didn't have anything else to keep it in," America spoke as if his choice of transportation for his prized catch should have been obvious to anyone. "I mean, my pocket was too small, and I needed the bucket for the dirt, so I came up with the idea to stuff it in my sock! My sock's long and stretchy, and the frog can breath through it, so it made a great carrying sack! Pretty resourceful, huh?"

_Is that what he calls it?_

England thought to himself.

"My shoe was pretty uncomfortable after I took my sock off, so I just took off both of my shoes and my other sock off too. I like it better like this, anyway."

"So where are your shoes now?" England asked. England had just realized that the boy's shoes were not among the other objects that were cluttering up the lawn.

America froze and stared straight ahead as if in deep thought. Without warning, he slapped himself in the face.

"Shoot! I knew I forgot something! Oh well, who needs shoes? Anyway, back to my story…"

England moaned and rubbed his temples some more. He forced himself to hear the story to its end.

"After I got the frog and all the dirt home, I filled up the hole. I was ready to plant the seed, but that's when I realized I didn't have one!"

"That's when you thought to look in the kitchen?" England tried to finish for him.

"No, first I tried searching through the old tree to see if there were any cherries left in it, but there wasn't any," America paused at this time and looked back at his arm. "That may have been when I scraped my arm…must have hit a branch, or something…"

"Then, you tried the kitchen?" England tried to keep America focused.

"Yep," America nodded. "And it wasn't easy, either. I looked _everywhere_ for it, and I had to be really quiet to keep from waking you up, because I wanted it to be a surprise," a look of sudden horror overcame America here. "Oh shoot! That reminds me! I forgot." America attempted to hold both of his arms out, but failed because he still had the fat frog in his hands. "Wait," after wrapping one arm around the frog so it couldn't escape, he threw the other arm out and yelled: "Surprise!"

For a moment, England didn't move. He didn't speak. He didn't respond in any way. He just stared at the filthy boy posing in front of him. After a short time, England put a hand over his mouth. His face appeared as if it was frowning. He started to shake slightly as strange sounds began to escape from him. When England could hold it back no longer, he let his hand fall from his mouth…and he laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Once he had started, he couldn't stop. He hugged his sides and fell to his knees as his laughter continued.

America was caught off guard. He put his arm down and held his frog with both arms again. He was not sure what to do as he watched England collapse with laughter in front of him. Was this a good thing? It was weird, though. He had never seen England go into a fit of laughter like this before. He began to get a little worried when it didn't let up.

"Um…Arthur?" he bent down a bit and cautiously spoke to his brother.

England continued laughing, but held up a hand as if to tell the boy to wait a moment. Soon, his laughter began to die down. England was finally able get a few words out in-between gasping and some left-over giggles.

"Forgive me…it's just…you are quite a sight…"

America stiffened. Was England laughing at _him_? After getting control over himself again, England rose. Still breathing hard, and still smiling, he wiped some tears from his eyes. He had needed that.

"Honestly," he shook his head in defeat at America. "You are the only person I know who could turn something as simple as panting a seed into such an escapade."

America frowned. England seemed to be making fun of him and he didn't like it.

"So what?" he spoke out in his defense. "I still planted it, didn't I?"

England giggled again.

"Yes," he replied, wanting the boy filling up with righteous anger to know that he was not trying to offend him. "Yes you did." England reached out. He put his hand on the boy's dirty head without even flinching. He smiled down approvingly at the boy who had tried so hard to make amends.

"Well done."

America's frown slowly went away as he looked up at England. He began to smile back. Finally, America felt as if everything was back to normal between him and England. His mission was a success! Once the smile had been returned, England took his hand off of America.

"Now, whats say we go inside and get that kitchen back to normal?"

"Kitchen?"

England crossed his arms at the boy.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You left quite a trail while you were on your little cherry seed quest."

"I did?" America thought for a moment. "Oh," he said when the realization hit him. "I guess I did," he looked up at England with a worried expression. He had not meant to cause more trouble. He had just rushed inside and searched the kitchen without thinking.

"I'm sorry! I was in a hurry and I didn't notice-"

England held up a hand and nodded.

"I know, I know. However, you did make the mess, so you really should clean it."

America lowered his head. He didn't want to clean the kitchen, but he knew it was only fair. At least England wasn't mad at him.

"Yes sir."

England smiled and motioned for America to follow him.

"Come, I'll help you," England decided to disregard the fact that there was a ship waiting for him. Hang the ship. He would make his way to it when he was ready and not a moment before. Besides, England figured that he had to supervise America if he wanted the cleaning done right.

"Alright. Thanks."

America walked up next to England as they both made their way to the house. England took a few steps to the side to avoid making anymore contact with the boy. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the hand that had touched America's muddy head.

"You could use a good scrubbing yourself," he spoke as he cleaned his hand. "I think a bath is in order."

America stopped in his tracks.

"A Bath? Why?"

England kept walking without looking back.

"Do you even have to pose that question?"

"But I just had one the other day!"

"You should have thought of that before you dove into that mud pit."

America tried to brush the dried mud off of himself.

"It's not that bad," he grumbled. "Can't we at least have breakfast first? My stomach's killing me!"

England was at the top of the porch by this time. He turned to America.

"The sooner you and the house get cleaned up, the sooner you can eat," he called in a tempting voice.

America had no choice.

"Fine, I'm coming."

He quickly walked to the porch and bounded up the steps. However, England held out a hand once more to stop him from reaching the top.

"And leave the frog outside, please," he pleaded.

"What? You mean I can't keep it?" America looked crushed.

"Of course not."

The boy held the frog up to England's face in protest.

"But it's a _GIANT FROG!_ How can you say no to a giant frog?"

England slowly backed away from the warty creature.

"With incredible ease, actually."

"Aw!" America whined, but turned and obediently marched back down the stairs. He kneeled down and put his prize frog carefully on the grass. "You heard him," he grumbled to the amphibian. "It's your lucky day, frog. Get out of here. You're free," the boy nudged back of the bulging animal until it took the hint and hopped away very slowly. America sighed as he watched it hop beyond the fence. It had taken him forever to catch that frog! Now it was making its escape in no particular hurry-almost as if it was mocking America.

"Are you going to sit on the front lawn all day?" England interrupted America's thoughts. With a sigh, America stood up and climbed the stairs to rejoin his brother. As they entered the house, he looked up at England.

"You know, sometimes you're no fun at all."

England smiled and guided the reluctant boy to the tub.

"So I've been told."

* * *

_Years Later:_

It was early morning deep in the forests of America. The sun was just rising and casting its light on the trees below. One tree stood tall above the rest and caught the sun's light first. Shiny dew drops began to slide off its leafs.

All was quiet around the tree. As the sun rose a bit higher, footsteps could be heard. Leafs and sticks on the forest floor crunched beneath the visitor's feet. Soon, the disturber of the early morning silence came into view. A young man immerged from the surrounding trees and cheerfully strode up to the very tall tree. Over his shoulder, rested a large axe. He took note of a few old scars on the tree's trunk. It looked as if someone had cut into the tree a long time ago but had not finished the job. The man looked up at the old tree and smiled. A gust of wind blew through the forest. The tall tree's branches shook violently in the wind. It almost looked as if the tree was quaking in fear. The young man's smile grew. It appeared that the tree recognized him.

"Don't look so surprised," he addressed the overgrown tree as he shrugged the axe off his shoulder. "I told you I'd be back."

That day, the old tree fell.

The End

* * *

Author's note: The end! Hope you enjoyed it! Again, this and other stories can be found on my Deviantart account (4TheFunOfIt) if anyone is interested. Later!


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